


What We Have Lost

by tristinai



Series: Actiones secundum fidei [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, M/M, Non-Consensual Violence, Verbal Abuse, alternating pov, cullrian - Freeform, hints of Adoribull, implied solavellan, non-consensual use of abilities, really toeing the lines of domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-11 02:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11704689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristinai/pseuds/tristinai
Summary: Cullen started using again for the right reasons. Or so he told himself. But lies have a way of festering and slowly, he has come undone.





	1. Control

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone. Here's the next part in the series. A bit of calm before the storm hits. I enjoy writing fluff but I find that my work is often lacking in it (hopefully, this makes up for it!). As always, please be aware of the tags as I update them with each chapter. Some of the themes that pop up later may be a bit triggery for some people. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has made it this far. I have enjoyed reading your feedback and your support has been what's kept this story going. Happy reading :)

Late into the night, Cullen held Dorian in his arms, confiding in him the past that continued to haunt him. He told the mage about Kinloch hold, the fragments of memory that formed the nightmares he experienced in the Fade. Often, he had a difficult time distinguishing what had been real and what had been illusion while being tormented by the demons, still couldn't say with certainty which tortures had been inflicted on his flesh and what had been in his head. He had to rely on old scars, faded in the decade since first being carved into his skin, to remember, a trail of bread crumbs that led to a place he wish he could forget.

 

Then he spoke of Kirkwall, of Meredith, and the corrupting red lyrium. He told Dorian of the person he had been, hardened by the trauma of Kinloch and a fear of magic that grew into hatred for mages. He whispered regret into the back of Dorian's neck, felt his lover's shoulders tense within his embrace, at his confessions: mages made tranquil for questioning templar authority, others killed for assisting in the escape of their fellow peers from the circle, arguments with the Champion—though magic ran in her family—of how mages were not people. Such had been his way, had given him a sense of control, even when he knew that the freedoms of those in his charge could only be suppressed for so long before they would resist.

 

Maybe he had said too much, been too honest, but he could sense the Tevinter's growing unease. Dorian shifted in his arms, turning to face the Commander, a troubled look on his face.

 

“And now?”

 

“Now?”

 

There was hesitation, a hint of sadness in the uncomfortable twitching of the mage's lips. He reached out to tame a golden curl, eyes not quite meeting the Commander's. “How do you feel about my kind now?”

 

In truth, terrified. Cullen had seen what the worst were capable of, still felt the instinctual need to strike out when in the presence of magic. The tingle of energy drawn from the Fade made him nauseous, memory of its corruption choking his airways, a fight-or-flight panic escalating, demanding a response. It took a great deal of self-control to not want to suppress that power whenever he felt it, even when performed for the sake of the Inquisition.

 

But magic was also an important part of the man he loved, as intrinsic to the mage's character as the mustache he wore or the beauty mark at the corner of his eye. And loving Dorian meant loving every facet of him, even the part of him that was capable of unleashing horrors that had already scarred Cullen in his youth.

 

“That the good among your kind are as deserving of the Inquisition's protection as the common farmer who desires only to see his next harvest plentiful, or the child left orphaned, their parents killed in the crossfire of a war they never wanted,” Cullen answered, his response sincere. “Tevinter, mage—these are but labels.”

 

“Labels that you southerners have taken pride in using interchangeably with insults,” Dorian challenged. “You'd think one was accusing a man of being a _maleficar_ when they all but spit the label _Tevinter_ in your handsome face.”

 

“I cannot excuse their ignorance, only speak from a place of understanding, having once been there myself.” Pressing a light kiss to that mole, something Cullen had always itched to do but felt too insecure about expressing his affection, he then added, “But I'd like to think most people can be swayed by one's actions. Though if after all you've done for the Inquisition, you still find some giving you a hard time, direct me towards them. I will find other means of persuading them you deserve to be here as much as any other man or woman.”

 

Dorian laughed at that, mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “Right. I will send the offender to my big, scary templar since, after years of their vitriol, I have proven quite incapable of defending myself.”

 

“Ex-templar,” Cullen mumbled, though not without guilt. He had taken his daily dose of lyrium earlier in the evening, his top drawer filled with empty vials he would soon need to return to Leliana for refills. But he didn't want to think on that now, would rather leave his admission to failure for another night, when he wasn't already exhausted from reliving the life he had led before the Inquisition. “And while your 'big, scary, ex-templar' boyfriend thinks you quite capable, he'd rather not have you believe you must always fend for yourself.”

 

It brought a vulnerable smile to Dorian's lips, made Cullen wish that after all he had said, the mage wouldn't look as if he was tiptoeing around broken glass. “Boyfriend now, is it?”

 

“I'd rather thought that's what we are...”

 

The Commander let his own hesitation slip, not wanting to presume if it was taking things too far. Though Dorian also wanted more, he seemed to be the one most insecure about what going forward could mean for them. If anything, Cullen was willing to take a step back and wait until the mage was ready.

 

“I rather like the sound of that.”

 

Despite himself, Cullen grinned widely, kissing the mage.

 

“So, boyfriends?”

 

Dorian laughed. “Of course. Such labels are not without their advantages. If only they could see me now in Minrathous, curled in bed with one of you uncultured, Southern templars—“

 

“Ex-templar—”

 

“—discussing a relationship of all things. I have little doubt my father would throw quite the tantrum, drag me back by my ear, and toss me at every doe-eyed, wilting wallflower—and I assure you, there are many amongst the Magisters' daughters—hoping that one will set his disappointing son 'straight'.”

 

Though he was being as glib as always, Cullen could sense that it remained a sensitive subject for the mage. He knew little of Magister Pavus, beyond Dorian once mentioning off-hand that he had settled a 'personal affair' involving the man at Redcliff. The mage had been withdrawn for a brief period after his return to Skyhold but Cullen had never asked, not thought it appropriate, to broach the subject.

 

“He sounds like quite the character.”

 

“Oh, he is.”

 

“Do you miss him?”

 

Dorian looked troubled at the question, spent longer mulling over the response he would give. To try and ease his lover, Cullen ran his hand soothingly along the mage's arm

 

“I do,” Dorian said, not without hesitation. “Even though I shouldn't. Not after...everything.”

 

“Would you like to talk about it?”

 

Hiding a yawn behind his hand, Dorian then said, “Another night, perhaps. It's a rather dreary subject—old skeletons in the closet and what have you—and I'd rather enjoy the current company and get a good night's rest.”

 

As the mage began settling more comfortably in his arms, Cullen sighed, allowed himself a few selfish moments to enjoy the feel of being entangled with his Tevinter lover, and reluctantly disengaged. “I left the dreamless sleeping drought on my desk.”

 

Although Dorian tried to maintain a sad pout, he couldn't help but chuckle as Cullen made for the ladder. “Try not to take too long or I may fall asleep without you.”

 

Ever eager to return to bed, a first for as long as the Commander could recall, he shimmied down the ladder and walked over to the desk. In no time, he had the vial uncorked and was swallowing the pink contents inside. It tasted a bit bitter, lacking the satisfying trill of imbibing lyrium, but if there was even a chance it would keep him from accidentally lashing out at his boyfriend that night, Cullen would have gladly consumed a pitcher of it.

 

It wasn't long before he was crawling back in bed, curling an arm around Dorian, and fitting himself behind the mage. A heaviness settled over him, the effects of the potion lulling him until his eyes slipped shut and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

Though he slept longer than usual, Cullen still awoke before Dorian. Not wanting to disturb the sleeping mage, who had flung an arm over the pillow he was now lightly drooling on (the Commander made a note to tease him about this later), Cullen had slipped out of bed, dressed quietly, and taken a walk along the battlements. It provided a good enough vantage point that he could oversee the end of the morning drills of the soldiers without making them anxious, some still having a hard time letting go of the incident from a few months before. Plus, he could also inquire about the night patrol with the scouts on the walls, saving him a bit of reading when he went through the daily reports later. And the fresh, mountain air had become more welcoming as of late, making him want to take advantage of opportunities to be outside his office.

 

By the time he arrived back, it was near noon and he was starting to feel peckish. He ignored the hunger pangs at first, preferring to wait until Dorian was awake so they could make up for lost time and enjoy a good meal together, and started going through the reports that had been delivered while he was out. Not long into his task, scout Jim arrived with a message.

 

“From Nightingale, Commander.”

 

Cullen broke the seal, scanning its contents.

 

_Commander,_

 

_I have considered your request. After some thought, I believe it best we continue on the current course._

 

_Regards,_

_L_

 

He frowned at the subtle rejection, irritated that he was subject to the same scrutiny as he had been when working with the Chantry. His current doses of lyrium were low, just enough to stave off the most severe cravings, but barely enough to satisfy. He was consuming amounts similar to younger recruits and had requested a return to what had been his typical dosage back in Kirkwall as he was starting to feel the effects wane. However, Leliana was already displeased that he had chosen to go back on lyrium and was firm in her decision on how much he should be taking.

 

“Will that be all, Commander?”

 

Cullen passed the note over the flame of a candle, watching absently as the edges frayed, the fire licking over the paper. He had almost forgotten Jim was still there, undoubtedly waiting in case the Fereldan wished to send his fellow adviser a response.

 

Letting the remainder of the letter go to be burned to ash, Cullen said, “Actually, there is one other thing. I am to have lunch with Ser Pavus and would appreciate if you could have a server prepare plates for us and send them to my office.”

 

“Of course, Ser. Is there anything in particular you would like to request?”

 

“Our cooks are fond of Fereldan cuisine so a bit of everything they've prepared for lunch would suffice for myself. I, unfortunately, cannot speak for Ser Pavus' preferences.” Staring up at the loft, Cullen yelled, “Dorian!”

 

It must have startled the mage awake because there were many curses uttered in Tevene, along with a loud thump, before the mage peered his head over the edge, naked torso visible. “What in the name of the Maker could be so important that you had to interrupt my sleep?”

 

Cullen couldn't help but grin at the mage's very unkempt appearance: his hair was tousled, pressed to the right side. Kohl smeared around the corners of his eyes and there was a visible layer of stubble coming in. Dried drool clung to the side of his face and though he knew Dorian would be mortified if he could see how he looked, Cullen found it adorable.

 

It was the first time they had spent the entire night together and, it turns out, Dorian was not a morning person.

 

“Jim here was wondering what you would like to eat,” Cullen said, nonchalantly.

 

It was only then that Dorian realized they were not alone. His eyes widened, many more curses were mumbled, before he stomped back into bed. But it was nothing compared to the deep shade of red that spread all the way down Jim's neck, the implications all too clear.

 

“He's generally more cooperative after he's had a cup of the Orlesian roast,” Cullen said, recalling the times he's seen Dorian with coffee in the dining hall. “And maybe something lighter for Ser Pavus: he's quite fond of fruits and breads.”

 

“None of that awful Antivan melon Josephine insists I try!” Dorian called down.

 

Jim nodded numbly. “R-right, Ser. I...shall have the server come. Shortly.”

 

He all but ran out of the office, ducking his head to try and hide the flustered look on his face. Cullen was shaking his head, bemused smirk on his lips, and started sorting through the reports he had yet to read. It didn't take long for Dorian to give up his attempt at getting more sleep and Cullen could hear the mage shuffle about above him, most likely making himself presentable.

 

“You must be quite proud of yourself, scarring your messenger like that,” Dorian said, from up above.

 

“I am,” was all the Commander had to say, sealing a missive he was to send out.

 

“Isn't that the one you're always giving a hard time to? One would think you were intent on seeing him to an early grave, the way you bark orders at him and send him all over the field, Red Templars or not.”

 

“He's the most reliable messenger we've got, always gets the job done, no questions asked,” Cullen answered. Then, being a bit facetious, added, “And he knows what he did.”

 

Climbing off the ladder, the mage sauntered over to the Commander's desk, seating himself on the only edge that wasn't covered with reports. “Careful, Commander. Such recklessness will have many tongues wagging. Loyalty only goes so far when there's delicious gossip to be had.”

 

“Those tongues have already been wagging, Dorian. Believe me, I've heard them.”

 

Dipping his quill in ink, Cullen began work on another missive, one about redirecting resources within Emprise du Lion. He wrote most of the letter in silence before he realized how odd that was, a prickling sensation at the back of his neck warning him of the troubled look on Dorian's face before he glanced up to confirm his suspicions. Dorian tried to appear mildly disinterested but there was no denying that he was bothered by what they had been discussing.

 

Setting down the quill, the Commander leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest. “I take it you're not as indifferent to the gossip.”

 

The mage traced a finger over the Commander's full name written on a penned letter, following the cursive with the same ease at which Cullen had written it. Though well-read in the driest of Thedosian and Chantry history, writing had never been a subject Cullen had put much effort into and he found his lettering to be clinical and precise, purely functional and lacking the flourish of Madame de Fer or Dorian's hand. But it made his pulse quicken with the way Dorian traced over the name, a fondness in the very action that even he hadn't anticipated.

 

The Tevinter mage did not answer immediately, perhaps trying to find the best way to address his discomfort.

 

“It's not what they say about myself that I take issue with,” he started. “I've given enough to fan the flames of the wildest rumors with my recent indiscretion alone, it would be rather daft of me to expect anything less.”

 

Cullen leaned forward in his seat, reaching out to stop Dorian's hand by touching it gingerly. After a moment, Dorian let go of a sigh, draining the last of his tension, letting the Commander interlace their fingers.

 

“But I would not have them drag you down with me, if I have any say in the matter,” Dorian finished.

 

It was unexpected, as Cullen had thought Dorian cared more about his own image than what his reputation did to the Commander's.

 

“Believe me when I say that it doesn't matter what a few disgruntled recruits say over their evening meal.” Cullen stood up, still holding Dorian's hand, moving to step between the mage's legs from where he was sitting on the desk. “There are more important things deserving of my attention.”

 

He leaned down, no hesitation in the tender kiss he placed on Dorian's lips. He felt more than heard the soft sound Dorian made, welcomed the arms that wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him down to deepen their connection. So drawn into the heat that spread down to his core from the gentle caresses of Dorian's tongue, sliding languidly against his own, that Cullen hadn't heard someone enter the room until an awkward cough forced the two to pull apart.

 

With a glare already set on his face, Cullen looked at the offender, not as surprised as he should have been to see Scout Jim standing uncomfortably near the door. The man already had a history of impeccable timing so what was one more incident invading the Commander's privacy to add to his list?

 

“Yes?” Cullen all but spat.

 

The poor man looked terrified. “T-the k-kitchen said they'd s-s-send someone s-soon.”

 

“Oh for the love of—”

 

“Thank you, Jim,” Dorian said, his tone as sweet as it was seductive, arms still thrown around Cullen's neck. “Now, if you don't mind...”

 

“R-right!”

 

The scout saluted and scurried off before he could be victim to the Commander's ire. Cullen was still mumbling under his breath irritably, wondering why his most reliable scout could also be so useless at times. Dorian, on the other hand, was more bemused than upset over being caught and it gave the Commander some relief to know that he was also growing more used to what the change in their relationship could mean.

 

“So where were we?” Cullen asked.

 

“I believe you were about to demonstrate those things more deserving of your attention.”

 

With a grin, Cullen pulled Dorian closer, intent on doing just that.

 

* * *

The days soon bled into weeks and with time, a visible change came over Dorian. Where he had once been more careful in his interactions with Cullen outside of private quarters, he now openly addressed the Commander with familiarity, flirtatious banter laced with private jokes, and would allow infrequent contact: little gestures such as the brushing of their fingers, should they pass each other en route to individual tasks, and even grasping the other's shoulder in the midst of lively conversation. More than once, Cullen found his cheeks filling with heat when Dorian let the pet name _amatus_ slip when in the company of the rest of the Inner Circle. Neither were keen on public display of affection but the word itself was a claim, one that Cullen wore with pride, and if it made him that much more eager to fall into bed with the mage later in the evening, it was to the benefit of both.

 

But with time, Cullen began to feel that old restlessness seep into his bones. There were days when the time between lyrium doses was unbearable and he would snap at everyone until he got his next fix. Dorian, who still believed the spells of irascibility was from having quit the stuff after Kirkwall, was ever patient, sometimes leaving the Commander alone for an evening under the assumption that his presence only exacerbated Cullen's short fuse. It always made Cullen slip beneath his sheets with a guilty heart, the taste of lyrium still on his tongue from his evening dosage, and lie to himself about coming clean the next day.

 

It was nearly a month that this had gone on and the headaches between doses became more severe. On one particular day, after being quite short with Dorian, the mage returned in the late afternoon with a peace offering.

 

“For easing your headache,” he said, handing Cullen a vial of elfroot potion.

 

The Commander looked at it with irritation, fingers trembling, a flare in his nostrils as he made a sound of disappointment. It was the wrong color, would offer no sustenance to ease the ripple of need that erupted in each moment he remained without.

 

“What makes you think my headache is the problem?” he muttered, dropping the vial with disinterest on his desk.

 

He returned to the report he was reviewing, hunched over his desk, tension visible in his shoulders. Everything about his posture was defensive, like he was only waiting for Dorian to give him reason to shift into the offensive, injure with words to match the foul mood he found himself in.

 

“You mentioned your headache this morning. I thought—”

 

“Have you ever considered that your constant interruptions may be the bloody problem?” he snapped.

 

The hurt on the mage's face instantly made Cullen regret his words. With a sigh, he ran his fingers through his hair, tousling locks that had been out of place all day from the repeated gesture.

 

“I'm sorry, Dorian. I've not been myself today.”

 

The mage tried to smile reassuringly but it looked so forced that Cullen couldn't bear to look at him. “It's alright. I suppose I have been more intrusive than usual today. You must have many more reports to get to and here I am, gabbing away and acting no better than a Chantry mother, assuming I know what's best for you. I shall leave you to your work.”

 

“Dorian—”

 

He attempted to follow the mage towards the main door, reached out to grasp the Tevinter's hand, only to have the other man pull away from his touch. It felt as harsh as outright rejection, the Commander's hand falling to his side and burning from the denial of what little comfort he had tried to offer.

 

“I really must return to the library,” Dorian said, expression as rigid as an Orlesian mask.

 

He slipped out the door, shutting it quietly behind him. Cullen wanted to pursue him, take hold of him, assure the mage with every lie he spilled off his tongue that it was only stress that seemed to have him constantly on edge. But Cullen knew better than to press when Dorian shut him out, silently vowed to make it up to his boyfriend later, once the lyrium craving was sated and his mood tempered.

 

So he returned to his desk and spent the remainder of the afternoon distracting himself with reports from outposts.

 

When it came time to take his evening dosage, Cullen was visited by the Inquisitor. Before he could drain the vial, Lavellan was watching with a critical eye, her disapproval as strong then as it had been when she first learned he was using it again.

 

“You need to tell him, Cullen.”

 

“Perhaps I'm waiting for you to tell him first,” he fired back, feeling that headache from earlier pounding at his temples. “You've already proven how unreliable your confidence is.”

 

Though she looked displeased, she couldn't hide the sting of truth in his accusation, made no effort to deny it. “I had never intended any harm by telling him. You must understand that Dorian has only ever had your best interests in mind. He wanted to help.”

 

“Well, it had never been within _my_ best interest to have my personal issues discussed without my consent,” Cullen said, nearly dropping the vial from the anger that left him shaking. “If you want to make it up to me, you can start by keeping this between us.”

 

“He deserves to know what is going on with you,” she said, not relenting on her point.

 

“As you had deserved to know of Solas and his intentions?” Cullen said, the irascible part of him satisfied to see her flinch visibly. “There is nothing comparable between our situations. The lyrium it...helps me.”

 

She ignored the jibe.

 

“It _helps_ you? Is that why you _need_ it every day?”

 

Cullen refused to acknowledge that he could be addicted.

 

“It's something neither you nor Dorian would understand.”

 

“All I understand is that you're hurting him by not—”

 

“By the Maker, will you let me take my damned lyrium in peace!”

 

His voice echoed loudly in the office. And were the Inquisitor of weaker will, his tone would have been enough to leave her shaking.

 

But her expression only hardened, eyes sharper than her blades, as she stared up at the man who towered over her.

 

“I shall leave you be,” she decided, voice colder than ice.

 

Her retreat should have been a victory, his hunger for lyrium soon satisfied by the cool liquid dripping down his throat. But as he sat on the edge of his desk, his delirium fading seconds after he had finished his dosage, he couldn't help but feel as if he had lost yet another battle.

 

* * *

“I don't like this, Cullen.”

 

Sweat trickling down his face, for once from exertion and not from the absence of lyrium in his system, Cullen raised his shield and charged head-on at the Seeker. With her own shield raised, a loud clang resounded in the training yard. Throwing the entirety of his weight forward, Cullen pushed, causing the Seeker to plant her feet firmly into the earth, the defensive stance making her a literal human wall. For what he had in weight and muscle, she had in years of experience on the field, her body molded into a weapon capable of unleashing fury unmatched on her enemies.

 

“I need this, Cass,” he gritted out, pushing harder, trying to make the Seeker step out of position, “It helps keep me focused.”

 

She was careful in her timing, waiting until most of his weight was pressed to her shield, before stepping aside, bringing the flat end of her sword to knock him in the back. But Cullen knew her tactics, anticipated the maneuver. Instead of stumbling forward, he pivoted, sweeping his shield to knock aside her blade. Though he didn't disarm the Seeker, he had her hopping back, out of striking distance to regain her footing.

 

"Forgive my ignorance but how is dependency a solution?"

 

Tossing her shield aside, Cassandra shifted her blade in her hand, adapting a more aggressive stance. Cullen did the same, mimicking the Seeker's posture, blade pointed in front of him. With a grunt, he charged forward, slashing his blade against the Seeker's.

 

She met each of his strikes with just as much ferocity, the two circling each other as they clashed, dust kicking up around their heavy boots. Specks of dirt clung to the Commander's glistening face but his expression was ever sharp, instinct having him avoid any blow that would, under normal circumstances, be fatal. But any attempt to knock him aside had him blocking the flat of the Seeker's sword, whose intent was to disarm and not skewer.

 

"It's the one thing keeping me from that sorry state I've been in since Kirkwall."

 

"There are other ways, Cullen. You don't need to—"

 

"You don't think I tried?" Cullen snapped, bringing the flat end of his sword hard against the Seeker's side.

 

Cassandra grunted, caught off balance momentarily before righting herself. The glare on her face was from more than frustration at having left herself open. She was genuinely angry.

 

"You should've tried harder! The Inquisition is counting on you! We—I am counting on you!"

 

There was a brief moment of concern that softened her furrowed brows, made Cullen nearly misstep from the revelation: he was the cause of that concern, forever a burden to those who cared for him.

 

_This is why the lyrium helps_ , he wanted to say. He didn't need others worrying for him, not when there were those who needed the Inquisition's attention more than he did.

 

"And that is why I need this, Cassandra. I need—!"

 

"How are you any different from Samson if you let your own mind be poisoned so easily?"

 

It was reopening a wound that still hadn't quite healed. The shame Samson had brought to an order Cullen had once believed so ardently in made him swallow bitterly, like knowingly drinking from a glass of poisoned wine. For that was what the templars had become, a perversion of what was once good, that had once stood for something worth protecting. But it wasn't the reminder of a man he had once respected that fanned the embers of Cullen's ire; it was the Seeker's accusation. That she would even question his integrity had him gripping his sword tighter, barreling towards her and striking her sword with enough force to make her falter in her footwork.

 

"I am not Samson!" he growled, rage making him bare his teeth like a frenzied beast.

 

Before he could slam his elbow into her, using her uneven balance to knock her off her feet, she was pivoting out of reach. She followed through with her sword, aiming low and striking the flat of it against the back of knees. Crying out in surprise, Cullen stumbled forward, falling hands first, kicking up a cloud of dust.

 

"Then if you are not Samson, you don't need it!" she said furiously.

 

Cullen spat out dirt, breathing heavily as he stared up at the Seeker. She made an imposing figure and he was certain that without their years of friendship, he would have been terrified to find himself placed in such a position.

 

But it was those years of friendship that also made him reluctant to let her get the best of him, made him cling fervently to his decision.

 

"I have no intentions on using it beyond my own means. You must understand, I—!"

 

"By the Maker, there is no reasoning with you!"

 

Angrily, she tossed her blade to the dirt, storming towards the opposite end of the training yard. The disruption in their sparring had Cullen glaring after her, his stubbornness keeping him firmly planted where she had left him. He knew he should make amends but he had no interest in hearing more of her judgment.

 

After a long minute of fuming into the distance, he became aware of how ridiculous he looked and picked himself up off the ground. He swatted away at the dust lining his sparring gear, tried to brush away the dirt on his cheeks but ended up smearing it even more into his thick stubble. He would have no choice but to go wash up before his meeting with the other advisers.

 

Kicking at his abandoned shield, he stomped off towards his tower.

 

"Clean that up!" he barked at one of the recruits, who had the misfortune of having been caught gawking at the Commander. He had hardly to indicate at their discarded weapons before the recruit was nearly tripping over himself, scrambling to pick everything up.

 

Maker, it was only morning and right now, the one thing that could ease his frustration lay untouched in a vial, hidden away in his desk. With many hours between him and his next dosage, he had a feeling it was going to be a long day.

 

* * *

With the Inquisitor off to the deep roads to investigate an old thaig, Cullen could put their last conversation out of his head, fall back into the routine he had established and not worry about Lavellan intervening in an issue that was not her concern. She had, unfortunately, left behind a very pissed off Seeker who, when not letting her disapproval be known, spent the better part of her days avoiding Cullen as much as possible. It made him a bit self-conscious under her scrutiny but also more rigid in continuing on the course he had set for himself, refusing to be bullied by his friends into giving up what had finally helped him find stability in his life.

 

As usual, he immersed himself in his work, buried the addictive itch that made him want to down the few doses of lyrium he kept in his kit, and rewarded a day's effort by succumbing to the potion's song. It's effect was always instantaneous, soothing the ache with each drop of bliss he swallowed. But the sensation always evaporated almost as quick as it had emerged, dying moments after the vial's contents passed his lips, tension returning to his weary shoulders and mind screaming for _more._

 

Having finished the last of his reports for the evening, he reached with shaking fingers into the drawer, pulled out the kit, and placed it on the desk. He held back the urge to rip open the kit and consume all three of the vials inside, instead forcing restraint as he carefully opened the box. No longer did the expressionless face of Andraste stare at him, the figure turned so she was facing away from him, tucked into the lid. Cullen could no longer withstand her judgment, the way his knees always buckled before her disapproval, knowing that each drop he swallowed left the bitter taste of disgrace burning down his throat. Let her and the Inquisitor bury him beneath their judgment, he would not subject them to his shame.

 

Uncorking the vial, he brought it to his lips, groan of relief ripping from his throat as he savored each drop, took longer to swallow what little he was allowed. It was delicious in a way that food wasn't, satisfying in a way that a lover could never be. It was his way of controlling the near destitute state he had driven himself into without the sweet kiss of lyrium to ease the stress of command.

 

As he finished off the vial, the main door to his office opened. Eyes widening in panic, he dropped the empty vial into the kit, grabbed the box and shoved it into the open drawer. Already, the effects of the lyrium were receding, though the suspicious look on Dorian's face told the Commander all he needed about the state he must appear in.

 

“Is everything alright, _amatus?_ ”

 

Cullen closed the drawer, cleared his throat, and then idly began stacking files, refusing to meet the mage's questioning gaze. “Quite. I—I wasn't expecting you this evening.”

 

The tremble had returned to his fingers, though he felt the power of the potion flow through him, a power that had once made him a terrifying force within the mage circles. He had once wondered if this was what it felt like for mages, a constant connection to a force that still mystified even the most well-read of scholars, but also was afraid of what that power could mean, felt its addictive lure each time he succumbed to his own vice.

 

“Cullen.”

 

The hand on his wrist stopped him, forced him to look up into a pair of warm, gray eyes filled with concern. He wanted to look away but knew his guilt was written all over his face, from his pupils blown wide to the frown that tugged on his lips.

 

“I...was just sorting some reports,” he said, the words sounding ridiculous even to his own ears.

 

Dorian wasn't convinced but Cullen refused to say anything else on the matter. He pulled his hand from the the mage's grip, returned to the task he had invented in a moment of spontaneity, and continued on in tense silence. It was a return to the ugliness that had once defined their mutual indulgence, when neither had the courage to discard their masks. There were still things that they couldn't talk about and admitting to Dorian that he was no better than the rest of the templar order who remained enslaved to lyrium was something the Commander wasn't ready to discuss.

 

“I'm worried about you.”

 

Cullen finished stacking the last of the reports in his hand. “I've been...a bit stressed as of late. I'm certain it will pass.”

 

“If there's anything I can—”

 

“I'm fine, Dorian,” Cullen said, a bit too quickly.

 

“I had been hoping that I could stay with you tonight. Or, if it's to your liking, tempt you to come to my quarters,” Dorian said, forcing a small smile. “Far more preferable to that horrid draft coming through that half-roof of yours. And it seems that no matter how I badger you about it, you are ever stubborn about remaining in such _austere_ conditions.”

 

Levity was something the Fereldan could deal with, a welcome diversion to the Tevinter's attempts at prying into the secrets he kept locked away. “Unfortunately, not all of us can have the luxury of a roof, not when our resources may best serve the Inquisition's more immediate needs. And I rather like my loft. It's—”

 

“Destitute? Dilapidated? Derelict?”

 

“—quaint,” Cullen finished.

 

“I'm afraid this is one of the many things you and I may have to disagree on.”

 

The Commander chuckled. “I suppose we must.”

 

“So, about my invitation...”

 

“I...am afraid I will need to take a rain check. I still have a lot of reports to get through.”

 

Dorian didn't hide his disappointment. “I understand. But it's...well, it's been a while.”

 

Cullen wanted to object but when he tried to recall the last time they had shared a bed, he was startled to realize that it had been nearly two weeks. His general irritable mood had made him spurn company and the weakening effectiveness of the dreamless sleeping droughts had made him too concerned for Dorian's safety to let the mage back into his bed. He knew it was another thing that would have to be addressed.

 

“You're right. In that case, I'll make sure I finish up what I have here and I will see you in your quarters tomorrow night. To make up for my horrible negligence.”

 

“And I expect you will be quite _thorough_ in making it up to me,” Dorian purred, wrapping his arms around the Commander's shoulders.

 

Cullen leaned down, his response a whisper against the mage's lips. “ _Very_ thorough.”

 

He kissed his lover softly, hands falling to Dorian's waist to pull the mage closer. There wasn't the heat of insatiable need but that of longing that fueled the kiss, made the Commander sigh into it, hold the mage a few seconds longer before returning to the reports that he very much needed to complete by morning.

 

When they pulled apart, a strange look was on Dorian's face, his tongue darting out to lick his own lips. Cullen was too exhausted to read into it, reluctantly let go of the mage so he could seat himself at his desk once more.

 

“I will see you tomorrow, Cullen.”

 

“Sleep well, Dorian.”

 

With the mage gone, the Commander returned to his reports. However, there was something about the way Dorian had looked at Cullen that troubled him, though he really couldn't pinpoint why that was.

 

* * *

Papers scattered the floor of his office, the contents of his drawer dumped to the floor, only adding to the chaos of the room. Like a man driven to hysteria, Cullen pulled books from his shelves, kicked over discarded paraphernalia, literally ripped the room apart, seeking to end the unrelenting ache that refused to be sated until he was downing his next dose.

 

_Maker, where are they?_

 

He looked for what felt like the thousandth time that evening in the lyrium kit that had fallen to the floor. Angrily, he ripped out the statue of Andraste, tossing it somewhere across the room, hoping beyond logic that the vials of lyrium somehow had gotten trapped behind the figurine.

 

The lid of the box provided no more answers than the rest of his overturned room.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted, throwing the kit at the wall in a fit of anger.

 

It smashed upon contact, splintering into pieces.

 

Where in the hell could he have put them?

 

He paced throughout the room, stepping over documents he had yet to send, empty vials shattering beneath his heavy boots. His mind raced, eager for any solution to make the pounding in his head stop, throat parched for a taste—just a drop—of that delicious potion.

 

Falling to his knees, broken glass digging into his legs, his hands ripped at paper, pushed aside books and spilled ink containers, grasping at one of the only intact vials that remained. Shaking hands uncorked it, tongue darting out to try and lick around the rim, tipping the vial to suction any drops that may remain inside. He all but sobbed when one hit his tongue, suckled greedily until he was certain it was empty.

 

It wasn't enough. He needed _more._

 

It was with mad haste that he stormed up the steps past the library, nearly bowled over a scout who was descending to the mall hall. Apologies fell on deaf ears, Cullen too desperate to stop and address his own rudeness. He burst through onto the top floor of the tower, causing ravens to squawk and a few heads to turn and stare at the breathless state he found himself in.

 

“I...need...more,” he wheezed, indicating to the empty vial in his hand.

 

Leliana's brows furrowed, the only hint of her irritation, as she looked up from where she was bent over her work space. A map of Thedas was splayed before her, another scout at her side, finger still hovering over the northern region of Orlais. The Commander knew how much she disliked being interrupted in such a way, no more than he enjoyed it when in the midst of a meeting with his officers, but his panic was ready to devolve into fury if he didn't get his fix soon.

 

“Leave us,” she said, quietly, to the scout.

 

Her voice held forced control in a way that his didn't.

 

Once the scout had departed, Cullen stumbled the final few paces to her desk, leaning heavily against it and dropping the vial onto its surface.

 

“Let requisitions know I require more,” he tried again, voice shaking with desperation.

 

Leliana studied his face carefully, her face a mask he was unable to decipher. It was maddening to the point of infuriating in how much effort she put into scrutinizing him, failing to address his demand. Then, with that same unreadable expression, she picked up the vial he had brought, spent long moments studying it in her hand, saying nothing.

 

“Well?” he snapped, his patience thinning.

 

The spymaster regarded him with a look that somehow managed to be both murderous and indecipherable all at once.

 

“You were given a week's worth of lyrium five days ago.”

 

The accusation in her voice was clear: if he had went over his daily limit, she would not take pity on him and requisition another dose. He almost wished Josephine, who normally handled such things as Skyhold's resources, had been left in charge of approving his lyrium dosages. She could maybe be swayed with the right language. Leliana, however, was quite unmovable.

 

“And I need more,” he tried again, forcing his tone to be more cordial.

 

It somehow came out more vicious, wavering with frustration he couldn't contain.

 

“When and how you consume your assigned dosages is not my concern, Commander,” she said, cold and biting. “You were given a week's worth and will receive more once the week is over.”

 

She returned to her map, sorting a few pieces across the chart. Her demeanor said this conversation was over but for Cullen, it wasn't. She had provided nothing to satisfy the hunger for lyrium that thrummed almost painfully, made him want to lash out and strike the one person standing between him and his fix. With an angry grunt, he swiped his arm across the table, knocking over what she had been charting, the pieces clattering loud enough to the floor that it startled some of the ravens that had been perched nearby.

 

“I need that lyrium _now_!”

 

“And I told you that you'll have to wait!” she snapped back, anger flashing quite briefly on her face.

 

It startled Cullen out of his aggressive stance, made him take a cautious step back away from her desk. In a sobering moment of revelation, he finally saw what he had done. Already, he could feel the apologies sitting on the tip of his tongue but a look from Leliana was enough to keep him silent, make him stare at the floor like a disobedient child.

 

“Now, I suggest you return to your office, think carefully on your actions, and remain there until morning. I'll have Cassandra check in with you and, perhaps by then, we'll find you in more agreeable spirits.”

 

He mumbled apologetically, nearly tripped towards the stairs as he was dismissed. On his walk back through the tower, he remained stoic, troubled, wondering how he had somehow lost his control.

 


	2. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By now, Dorian was used to being lied to. Yet it hasn't made him better at coping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is yet another one of those chapters that very much flirts with the fine line between abuse and forgivable behavior. Please make sure you have read the updated tags before continuing.

All night it drove him mad, their last kiss leaving a sick feeling in the pit of Dorian's stomach. He kept telling himself it was paranoia, perhaps exhaustion from late nights spent in the library instead of curled up with his cantankerous boyfriend, finding comfort in books as he waited out Cullen's recent period of short-fused impatience. But the more he thought on it, tossing and turning in his bed, the more certain he was that it had been lyrium he had tasted on his lover's lips.

 

When little sleep found him, he decided that he had to know for certain. So he waited until Cullen made his early morning rounds on the ramparts and slipped into the Commander's office. The Fereldan's odd behavior the evening before was a tip off that whatever was wrong would be found in that top drawer.

 

With trepidation, Dorian pulled out the lyrium kit. He felt guilty enough that his curiosity brought him to this point, invading the Commander's trust, but every time he closed his eyes, he tasted lyrium and shame and it made him queasy to think that after Cullen made such a declaration about wanting to make things better, he'd go behind Dorian's back and begin using a substance that would drastically shorten his life expectancy.

 

Taking a deep breath, the mage opened the kit. What he saw made his heart sink.

 

Most of the vials were empty, two contained small doses of the blue substance.

 

“ _Fasta vass,_ ” he swore under his breath.

 

Numbly, he picked up the two vials, turned them over carefully in his hands. He tried telling himself that maybe it wasn't what he thought. Perhaps they were left over from when Cullen had been using, a reminder he kept on hand to keep from slipping back into bad habits. It hardly made sense in the Tevinter's own head but he was desperate to believe anything other than the truth glaring him in the face.

 

But he was certain he had seen Cullen take something before shoving whatever it was back into his desk.

 

Putting the full vials into his robes, Dorian shoved the kit back in the drawer. He left the office before he could be found out, sneaking through one of the side doors and heading back towards his quarters. He felt numb, shock making him nearly crash into a door instead of opening it to venture down the hallway leading to his room.

 

It was some time before he was able to sort through what he was feeling, sitting on his bed and staring down at the vials he had coveted. He still couldn't be sure why he had felt the need to steal these, too hurt and feeling lost all over again, feeling as if the man who claimed to love him was someone he didn't know at all. But the more he thought on it, the more that hurt bled into anger, anger for being lied to and made a fool all over again.

 

Let the Commander find his _precious_ lyrium stolen. Then he'll come to Dorian, the start of a withdrawal driving him into a frenzy, morphing him back into that utter mess the mage had promised to help. Dorian will watch it unfold, will let the Commander fall apart. Only this time, he couldn't be certain he will stick around to pick up the pieces.  
  


For the rest of the day, Dorian divided his time between the library and his room, restlessness making him unable to nap long enough to make up for lost sleep but also making words blur into each other every time he tried picking up a book. It made the day feel longer but he somehow made it to the evening ignoring every urge to storm into the Commander's office and throw that damned lyrium at the Fereldan and demand to know what the fuck he was thinking going back on that stuff. Cullen had promised to stop by that night but Dorian had to wonder if he should bother waiting around for the Commander in his room, knowing that anything he had to say would only blow up into a large argument.

 

It was sometime after dinner that the stomping of someone in full armor made the many heads in the library turn towards the man who had briskly entered the floor. It was a blur of golden curls and red armor that led the man to the next set of stairs but all around, the whispering started, some mages glancing cautiously towards Dorian, the rumored lover of the man in question. Irritably, Dorian could feel his cheeks heat at the scrutiny but any embarrassment he felt died as the Commander's wild-eyed, disheveled appearance sunk in.

 

Dropping his book moodily onto his chair, Dorian made the choice to storm out, only adding to the gossip, as he retreated to his room. Distantly, he could hear the echo of the Inquisition Commander shouting something at the Spy master up above and it only sealed his decision in how done he was with all of this.

 

Slamming the door to his room behind him, he shucked off his robe and collapsed onto his bed. He wanted sleep to find him but found he was too angry, his mind refusing to silence the vicious thoughts that would warp into twisted nightmares, should he keep obsessing over all the ways Cullen was killing himself.

 

Unable to sleep, he went to the one place that would give him temporary relief.

 

“You're cut-off,” Cabot said, glaring at the mage.

 

Dorian emptied a small pouch of gold he had brought with him.

 

“Surely, in the spirit of supporting the true hero of the Inquisition, said hero could take pity upon a man looking to support his business and endow his best customer with a pint of the local brew.”

 

If anything, the look on Cabot's face became stubbornly less impressed.

 

“Vishante kaffas, man, just give me a damned drink! It's not like I've had any in months!”

 

Swearing, the dwarf relented but with an open glare, sliding a pint to the mage.

 

“No refills,” he said, pocketing the gold coins.

 

Dorian managed to look just as pissed off about the exchange, knowing he'd parted with enough gold to fill his tankard for the rest of the evening, but after taking his first sip, he decided it was worth it. The alcohol went smoothly down his throat, its blissful lure like a mother's embrace, something that he had been missing for far too long.

 

Thinking it best to put as much distance between him and Cabot, the mage took his drink to where Bull and the Chargers usually hung out, both disappointed and also not, to see the qunari sitting with Krem at a table. Lavellan had brought Vivienne, Blackwall, and Varric into the deep roads, leaving the rest of the Inner Circle at Skyhold to start thinking about their lives post-Corypheus. Bull, now a Tal-vashoth mercenary, was adamant about sticking around with the Chargers to lend their services to the Inquisition in any way that they can. Meanwhile, Dorian had begun thinking about returning to Tevinter but had yet to voice or put plans in motion. Admittedly, with the most recent revelation about Cullen, it was making the decision easier for the mage.

 

“Cabot finally let you off the hook?” Krem asked, as Dorian seated himself beside the fellow Tevinter.

 

“Not quite.”

 

“Trouble in paradise?” Bull asked, cocking a brow.

 

Glaring into his tankard, Dorian lifted it to his lips and chugged nearly half of it down.

 

“Lyrium addiction is a hard thing to beat,” the qunari continued.

 

“Did everyone else find out before I did?” Dorian snapped, setting his tankard down hard enough to make the table rattle.

 

“He sounded right again with the chains in place but all I taste are his lies. Did he ever mean it or am I still a distraction?”

 

The mage wasn't sure if he wanted to scream in frustration or cry. He settled for pinching the bridge of his nose, forcing himself to not lash out at the poor kid. “Not. Now. Cole.”

 

The spirit looked up at Iron Bull, sad expression on his face. “I just wanted to make the hurt stop.”

 

Despite that Dorian wanted to tell Bull not to encourage Cole's odd behavior—not like any amount of irritation from the Inner Circle had ever discouraged the spirit—he simply shook his head as the qunari patted the odd man on the shoulder. “Don't mind Dorian. You're doing good, kid.”

 

“He wants the Commander to trust him,” Cole said, somehow managing to sound more defeated than even Dorian felt.

 

“Right now, I'd much rather you bugger off and leave me in peace.”

 

Both Krem and Bull glared at Dorian as their spirit friend disappeared. The mage would have said something scathing but he was too busy finishing off his drink, his mind already jumping to how he could procure more alcohol without Cabot noticing.

 

“Maybe you should go a bit easier on him.”

 

“And maybe you should do something useful and get me a drink,” Dorian said, pushing his empty tankard towards Bull. “I'd also advise against the inevitable lecture I'll be forced to endure for engaging in behavior that—yes, I am well aware—is highly self-destructive and quite the opposite of providing any resolution to the predicament I find myself in. Let me have this one night of mind-numbing impropriety.”

 

“...sometimes, I swear you talk just to hear the sound of your own voice,” Krem said, shaking his head. Picking up Dorian's empty tankard, he muttered something to the Iron Bull before heading over to the bar.

 

“Well, at least someone is willing to help a poor sod indulge in his favored vice.”

 

Bull's expression said everything about his disapproval but he remained contemplatively silent, perhaps resisting every instinct that told him to reprimand the Tevinter for breaking a rule set by the Inquisitor. The mage was a little surprised that the qunari hadn't begun dishing out unwanted advice, or attempted to talk down Dorian from his current course of action, but maybe even he could see how much Dorian needed to temporarily forget the shit he was going through.

 

Many hours later, well after Dorian had been kicked out of the pub by Cabot, only to find himself alone with the qunari outside and passing the Tal-vashoth's flask between them, the mage had reached his limit and had to be half carried back to his quarters. It was with breath stinking of maraas-lok and wobbling legs that he all but fell into his bed, feebly tugging on Bull's thick wrist. But it was like trying to coax a mountain into moving a few centimeters to the left, the qunari as unmovable from where he hovered above the mage as he was blurry in Dorian's spinning vision.

 

“Don wanna be 'lone,” the intoxicated mage mumbled, curling onto his side and still clutching Bull's wrist.

 

The qunari sat on the edge of Dorian's bed, reaching out with his free hand to stroke the back of the mage's head. “You're not.”

 

Though he was dizzy enough to throw up, there was something about the action that soothed the mage and before long, he was drifting into dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

It was late in the afternoon when Dorian awoke, the familiar pounding of a headache and a scratchy, dry throat to welcome him to another day. Though alone, the slight dip at the mattress' edge was all the evidence of the vigilant watch the Iron Bull had kept the night before and it made Dorian reach out, his fingers linger over the spot, bitter revelations coaxing a sad sigh from his lips.

 

Cullen should have been with him the night before.

 

Sure, Dorian hadn't remained in his room and waited the night foolishly, tricking himself into believing the Commander cared to keep any promises made while rampaging about Skyhold for lyrium. But it wasn't as if the Fereldan had tried to prove him wrong, had made any effort to seek out his Tevinter boyfriend at the few places Dorian frequented.

 

It made him feel that much more stupid for giving Cullen another chance.

 

Not caring to go through his usual personal grooming regimen, Dorian cleaned himself up as much as he was willing, wiping away smeared kohl and washing his face. He left the barest of stubble on his cheeks, threw on a clean robe, and made for the dining hall.

 

“Yeh look like complete shite,” Sera remarked, scrunching her nose at him.

 

“And a good afternoon to you, too, my most surreptitious, pointy-eared friend,” Dorian said, seating himself across from the elf.

 

“Surrewhassit? Is that some fancy insult you pissy high brows use for us common folk?”

 

“Er...not quite.”

 

She flicked a pea at him from off her plate, hitting him right between the eyes. He was already not in the best of moods and her comments on his appearance made him want to forget food altogether and crawl back into bed, maybe even seek out Bull and Krem for more of the Chargers' stash of spirits. His kind of misery was in no mood to entertain company and drinking alone always seemed like the best solution to his problems.

 

“Was that really necessary?” he sighed, forcing his tone to stay even.

 

She shrugged. “Figured you were all tizzy 'bout your boyfriend being sick. Still don't mean I like being called surreptiwhatever.”

 

“Oh, for the love of—it wasn't an insult. I meant—wait, what do you mean 'sick'?”

 

Shoving a heaping forkful of mashed potato in her mouth, she chewed and smacked quite loudly, earning her an impatient look from Dorian. But she returned the mage's expression with one of her own, the elf looking annoyed at having to spell it out. “Heard it from the guards. No one's to go in his office, 'cept Cassandra. Must've come down with somethin' if he's on lock down.”

 

Appetite forgotten, Dorian immediately pushed himself off the bench. He was suddenly regretting having acted so vindictively, intending on using the pilfered lyrium to force Cullen to come to him and to eventually come clean. But he had seen the worst of the ex-templar's withdrawal spells, knew the kind of toll they could have on the Commander. And if Dorian was the cause of anything life-threatening happening to the Fereldan...

 

“Going to nurse your Cully-Wully back to health?” Sera called after him but he was already halfway towards the exit.

 

Making it over the ramparts felt longer than usual, even at the quick pace he had set. With every moment ticking past, Dorian imagined his lover curled up, shaking, fevered sweat and shortness of breath pulling the Commander further into a bleary daze, body reacting almost violently from a substance it had become dependent on for the better part of his life. It brought Dorian to the main door to Cullen's office with the sun already starting to set. But before he could throw the door open and enter, the way was blocked by two stern looking guards.

 

“No one's to enter the Commander's office. Nightingale's orders,” the taller of the two said, forcefully.

 

The mage muttered something harshly, trying not to roll his eyes. “Given my particular _relationship_ to the Commander, I don't see why an exception—”

 

“ _No one,_ ” the shorter guard echoed, taking a more firm tone.

 

“And what if my presence is desired?” Dorian asked, “Surely, if we ask the Commander, he'll have no qualms about seeing me.”

 

“If you are having difficulty understanding these orders, Lord Pavus, I suggest you take it up with the spymaster,” the taller guard said, standing firm between the mage and the door.

 

The other guard kept his hand hovering firmly near the pommel of his blade and it was all the warning Dorian needed to know how far they were willing to go to see Leliana's orders through. It made him swear quietly, a string of curses far more harsh than they deserved delivered in a foreign tongue, and storm back to his quarters. He needed to settle this once and for all.

 

* * *

“I need you to call off your watch dogs and let me in the Commander's office,” Dorian demanded, placing both hands flat on the spymaster's work desk.

 

A mere twitch in an auburn brow was the only sign of her irritation as she stared up at the man who disrupted the missive she had been working on. The raven that was sitting on her shoulder squawked up at Dorian, its beady eyes sending a chill down the mage's spine. He had no doubt of the creature's loyalty and wondered absently if any of the birds in here had ever been used to silence anyone who crossed the red-headed rogue.

 

“It seems all of Skyhold's occupants see it fit to storm in here and demand whatever fits their fancy on a whim,” Leliana remarked, carefully setting down her quill. “I must rethink moving my office space. Preferably, some place with a door.”

 

“A simple acquiescence would suffice.”

 

“If only it were that simple, Dorian,” Leliana said, standing up to her full height. She stroked the underside of the raven's neck, watching the Tevinter carefully. “But I worry that some of you forget yourselves. I cannot 'acquiesce' because you _command_ it. I have to consider the delicate machinations involving all parties, and the safety of certain individuals who may be undergoing trying conditions at this time.”

 

The veiled manner in which she spoke was not surprising, though Dorian was all but certain she knew that he was aware of Cullen's attempts to quit lyrium. However, seeing as he had only learned the night before of Cullen retaking lyrium, perhaps Dorian was one step ahead of the Spymaster for once.

 

Pulling the lyrium vials out of his pocket, Dorian placed them on the table between them.

 

“The Commander didn't increase his dosage. I stole these from his office.”

 

He thought he could almost detect surprise on her usually unreadable face. But even if it had been there, it was masked by the curiosity in which she regarded the two vials and he could almost picture the gears working in her head, piecing together parts of her confrontation with Cullen that she had misread.

 

“If you wanted lyrium, you should have requisitioned it, like all other Skyhold mages are required to do,” she finally said, flicking her eyes up at him.

 

It wasn't so much her face but her voice that let him know she was displeased.

 

“I am—was—angry with him, for using again,” Dorian admitted.

 

Saying it out loud made him feel more childish for coveting the vials.

 

“The Commander's usage of lyrium was never any of your concern. And—yes, while I am fully aware of your _intimacy_ with Cullen—it doesn't give you the right to make this choice for him.”

 

“ _Fasta vass_ , you can't be serious! This will kill him!”

 

“And if he keeps trying to quit, it could kill him all the same. A fact you should become quite familiar with.”

 

The truth of it silenced the mage, his protests dying on the edge of his tongue. He had spent enough time researching the effects of lyrium withdrawal to know that what Cullen was doing was incredibly dangerous. In some recorded instances, frequent prolonged periods between doses was known to exacerbate symptoms, making users violently ill and causing severe deterioration of mental functions. Some had even died trying to quit, though such attempts were either rare or scarcely made it into what little was published on lyrium usage by non-mages.

 

The moral dilemma Dorian found himself in must have been evident in the grim setting of his lips. Leliana looked as close to sympathetic as she would allow, eyes darting between the vials and the Tevinter standing before her.

 

“The Commander is well aware of the consequences, Dorian. It was never our decision to make.”

 

With a sigh, Dorian dropped his gaze to the floor. “I know.”

 

Somehow, admitting that is was out of his hands made him feel like he was a spectator to his lover's demise, watching listlessly as the man drowned in his own addiction, a corpse that would float away on the tide, alone and forgotten as time was want to do. _Venhedis_ , he had dabbled enough in time magic and yet he was powerless to stop its passage as each moment without lyrium wrought further damage to the Commander's mind and body.

 

“Now, I suggest you return today's dosage to him as it would be wrong for either of us to deny him what was requisitioned to him.”

 

Picking up the vials, she handed it to Dorian. Taking her quill in hand, she quickly jotted a message on scrap parchment, clicked her tongue, and then tied the note to the raven's talon. With not more than another click, the raven took flight and exited one of the tower's windows.

 

“That should resolve the issue with the guards. If there's nothing further, I recommend settling this matter swiftly. Please send the Commander my deepest apologies for having doubted his intentions.”

 

She returned to the missives she had been working on and Dorian knew he was being dismissed. His footsteps echoed heavily over stone as he made his way back to the stairs.

 

He may not be able to force the Commander to stop using but he'd be damned by the Maker himself if he didn't at least try.

 

* * *

The day had fallen to dusk, hues of red painting the early evening sky. Fading light splattered across the frosty caps of far off mountains, snow surrounding the hold glittering in the dying light. Though the air remained ever brisk, the Frostback chill long since burned deep into the Tevinter's bones, Dorian allowed himself a moment to appreciate the beauty of it all, the Thedas they had saved.

 

From across the ramparts, the Commander's tower loomed, casting its shadow like a wraith creeping its way through a veil tear.

 

He looked down to the lyrium he was holding, wondered how anything that could shimmer and sing of the secrets from the Fade could also be the one thing that threatened the happiness he had found, strip away that acceptance in the arms of a man he should despise for all that the southern templars represent.

 

"I thought we already told you—"

 

"Let him pass, Derrick," Cassandra said, voice firm. She handed the soldier the message she had retrieved, the winged messenger ascending back towards the tower. "He has the Spymaster's blessing."

 

The taller guard pocketed the note, not even bothering to confirm what was written. Dorian found himself mildly impressed with the authority the Seeker held but knew that a lot of it came from the trust she had cemented with the soldiers in her years of service to the Inquisition. Not that there would ever be need to question any order she claimed: the Seeker was rigid when it came to following the rules and had only a brief dalliance with rebelling after discovering the truth about her order. Even then, she remained torn between doing what she knew to be right and protecting a way of life she lived and breathed.

 

The guards eyed Dorian warily but both stepped aside, not willing to test Cassandra's patience.

 

"Finally, a bit of bloody respect," Dorian said, with the same obnoxious air he carried himself among the upper echelons of Tevinter. But as his hand grasped the handle of the door, a grip on his shoulder gave him a moment's pause.

 

"Dorian, wait."

 

He glanced back at Cassandra.

 

"The Commander, he's...not himself."

 

"I have heard enough of his innocuous babbling to have some inkling of what I am walking into."

 

"I am quite serious, Dorian."

 

"As am I, Seeker," he said, gesturing towards his hand. "I am well aware of the situation."

 

Hidden away from the soldiers standing watch, he revealed to her what he was holding. Upon seeing what the vial contained, understanding lit her eyes, blasphemous curse uttered under her breath.

 

"I thought he..."

 

"So had our dear Spymaster," Dorian replied, voice barely above a whisper. "I may have taken matters into my own hands."

 

"While we are in agreement on this matter—"

 

"A rarity."

 

"—I must question the means you have chosen to take."

 

"He shouldn't be on this! You know that as well as I do," Dorian whispered fiercely.

 

His voice hit a pitch that drew the attention of the guards, though they tried to appear nonchalant. At best, they only had a carefully construed rumor, a deflection set by Leliana, to go on. But Dorian didn't need to add to whatever assumptions they weaved in their own heads.

 

"As I have said, we are in agreement—"

 

"But you disapprove as well?" Dorian said, quieting his voice. But his accusation was clear, inferred with his harsh tone. That everyone could stand by and let this continue felt like a betrayal that had him question the morality of those he had come to consider like family.

 

"It's...a complicated issue," Cassandra said, lips forming a frown. "But it has left the Commander in a rather volatile state. If you must return that which was taken, I advise caution."

 

"I can handle an irascible ex-Templar. I fought enough of them in Corypheus' army."

 

"This is hardly the same."

 

"He won't hurt me, Cassandra," Dorian said, the firmness in his voice leaving no question of his trust in such a statement.

 

 _No worse than he already has_.

 

Maybe Cassandra wanted to argue further, the doubt clear on her face. But she relented, stepping back, folding her arms across her chest.

 

"I will be out here, ready to intervene should you find the Commander...in worse health than you anticipated."

 

Her words may have been carefully chosen but conveyed enough concern to have Dorian doubt his own confidence. Perhaps this wasn't wise.

 

“If it's all the same to you, I'd rather prefer privacy,” Dorian said, looking meaningfully between Cassandra and the guards.

 

He could see the hesitation on the face, the tension that steeled her posture. “You are quite sure of this, Dorian?”

 

At his nod, she gestured for the guards to follow her towards the main keep, close enough to manage the path on the upper rampart but far enough that should any choice words be exchanged in raised voices, they wouldn't reach the curious ears of the soldiers. But she didn't leave quietly, issuing a final warning. “May the Maker forgive whatever fool thing he does while in his _condition._ ”

 

Waiting until he was satisfied that he would have the privacy he desired, Dorian stared once more at the door before him, discomfort twisting in his gut. It was all that stood between him and the fraying trust he had unwoven when he had first sneaked inside the day before.

 

Bracing himself for whatever awaited him on the other side, Dorian took a shallow breath before entering the office.

 

The destruction he met inside made him instantly regret coming.

 

Books scattered across the floor, pages ripped and torn, ink drying over discarded maps and stone. Cullen's chair must have been flung at the wall at some point for it lay in pieces in the corner, his desk overturned but at least in better shape. Most of the candles were out, a single one struggling to remain aglow, and the mage could just make out a dark figure hunched by the window at the far end.

 

“Amatus.”

 

Cullen turned from where he had been staring off in the distance, the shadows splashing across his face making the circles beneath his eyes appear darker. He looked no more worse than his office, a casualty of his own head, the itch for that which he hungered leaving the husk of a man when those cravings weren't sated.

 

“I—I n-need—”

 

He tumbled forward towards the mage but Dorian was already there, low grunt leaving his lips as he struggled to keep Cullen from toppling them both over. The Fereldan all but collapsed in his arms, shaking and sweating, drenched, crimson shirt clinging tight to pale skin as it dampened Dorian's robes. It should have disgusted him—the intense smell of body odor, musky stench of vomit and waste from an unclean chamber pot that clung to the stale air—but his arms held the ex-templar close, chin resting on damp curls. He could feel the uneven breaths whisper against his collarbone, hear a defeated moan spill from a mouth he had not kissed in days.

 

Maker help him, how could he think this had been the right thing to do?

 

“It'll be alright, _amatus,_ ” Dorian said, trembling fingers stroking mussed curls.

 

He pressed his other hand to the Commander's, allowing the other man to feel the vial within his grip. That's when he felt Cullen still against him, tired eyes becoming sharp as the Fereldan lifted his head, stared into Dorian's eyes questioningly.

 

“I believe this will help.”

 

And like a mage possessed, Cullen snatched the lyrium so hastily, his nails scraped against Dorian's skin. Pupils blown, lips twitching in a small grin that didn't look quite right, shaking fingers struggled with the vial's cork, eager to end what must have been two long days of cravings powerful enough to break someone as steadfast as the Commander. It made Dorian feel even more disconnected to the man he loved, seeing him mutter to himself as sweat dripped off his face, damp fingers slipping off the cork each time.

 

But if the mage was honest with himself, how many times had he found himself in a similar situation with a bottle of wine?

 

“Cullen, a moment...please.”

 

He reached to pause Cullen's attempts at opening the vial but Cullen must have thought Dorian was trying to take back the lyrium. He drew his hands closer to his chest, hugging the substance possessively, lips curling into a vicious snarl.

 

“How did you know?” Cullen demanded.

 

The question startled Dorian, made him avert his eyes guiltily.

 

Even in the throes of his self-made madness, Cullen easily pieced it all together.

 

“You stole my lyrium.”

 

There was no question, no room for doubt in the accusation. He stepped back away from Dorian, shaking his head in disgust. Like a wounded predator tapping into the last of its adrenaline before it succumbed to death, the Commander drew himself to his full height on shaking legs, waiting for the mage to give him any reason to go on the attack.

 

“I...yes.”

 

Any excuse the Tevinter made would be a diversion to the simplicity of the truth.

 

“What in the name of the Maker made you think you could go through my desk?” Cullen snapped loudly, the harsh tone nearly making Dorian flinch.

 

When Dorian didn't answer, Cullen barked even louder. “Answer me!”

 

His lips parted, ready to spill soothing words to calm down the escalating rage the ex-templar had worked himself into. But a flash of anger in golden eyes had Dorian stumbling back as a fist lashed out, smashing into the broken bookshelf at Cullen's side. What little remained of the shelves splintered, crashing to the floor. The mage tried to step out of reach but had reacted too slowly, grunting out as a bruising grip shoved him down roughly to his knees.

 

“Unhand me!” Dorian hissed through the pain, the calloused fingers digging into his exposed upper arm trapping him by Cullen's feet.

 

But what little resistance he made only fueled Cullen's ire, made the Fereldan grip him tighter. Every instinct was telling the mage to draw on his pool of mana, summon enough elemental magic to startle Cullen into letting him go. But even he knew that triggering the ex-templar when he was in such a state could only end with Cullen using his own abilities against Dorian.

 

“I should have known better than to trust one of _your kind_ ,” Cullen snarled, yanking his arm and forcing Dorian further to the ground. “Nothing but a selfish, manipulative, lying sack of—!”

 

“I said let me go!” Dorian cried out, elbows scraping against the stone floor of the office. “Venhedis!”

 

“AND I'M TELLING YOU THAT YOU DESERVE FAR WORSE!”

 

The tips of his fingers warmed, drawing from the Fade to conjure a quick spell. But as the air around them sparked with his magic, Dorian was struck with something he hadn't anticipated, his entire skin feeling as if it were about to burst into flames while his lungs screamed for air. It was like he couldn't breathe, so suddenly was the connection between him and the Fade ruptured that it had the mage curled up on the stone floor, shaking, head and vision spinning as he clutched blindly at his chest.

 

He tried to call out but his voice rasped incoherently. For many moments he twitched and writhed, all but choking when the panic subsided and he drew in quick, shallow breaths. He tried to focus, reaching out mentally to grasp at the flow of mana that came so naturally to him. But it was like wandering through a dark forest, seeking a tiny trinket long lost to the sands of time.

 

It was horrifying, a part of himself having been ripped away with such careless ease. What made it worse was the face behind such a cruel act.

 

“M-Maker, what have I done?”

 

The vial of lyrium clattered to the floor beside him as Cullen dropped to his knees in shock, his entire body shaking. A stream of barely coherent apologies spilled from trembling lips but it only added to the white noise, the distant ringing that slowly drew Dorian back to himself, made him swallow uncomfortably and sit up shakily on his knees. When Cullen tried to reach out, he instinctively shuffled back, silken robes sliding over barely-dried ink.

 

“D-don't you dare touch me!” he whispered, a mixture of hurt and panic drawing his voice to a pitch.

 

He tried telling himself that this wasn't Cullen, this was the lyrium. But it was hard to find reason when his body still stung with the full force of the ex-templar's smite.

 

“Dorian...”

 

The moisture that clung to the mage's lashes made him swipe at his eyes in embarrassment. But it was the dejected note in Cullen's voice that eased the violent thudding in his chest, made him draw a long, slow breath and calm every instinct telling him to leave. When he looked up at the man he loved, the pain and guilt that splashed across pale cheeks, Dorian could almost believe the regret in those honey-colored eyes.

 

But he had heard all those promises before, knew how easily sweet words became twisted lies when Cullen failed to act on what he claimed. And right now, he needed more than empty words.

 

“Whatever possessed you to start using again?” he whispered, voice nearly cracking.

 

“I...was concerned that my condition was hurting you—and what we have,” Cullen admitted.

 

At that, Dorian couldn't hold back a bitter, broken laugh that hurt more than the sick irony of it all.

 

“Do you honestly expect me to believe you would poison yourself for me?”

 

“I wanted control. I was a damned mess without it and Maker knows I was only getting worse.”

 

“Don't you try and make this about me. _Fasta vass,_ you foolish oaf, how was this supposed to make things better?”

 

“Are you really arguing with me after your evident trust issues—!”

 

And that made the mage's own rage build to the point of snapping.

 

“For fuck's sake, I've never used my bloody magic against you so don't you dare think of making me feel guilty about taking your fucking lyrium!”

 

Though both of them knew that Dorian had been more than prepared to use a spell in defense, it silenced any further protest Cullen had, made him instinctively reach for the mage once more, only to pause at the fearful look on the Tevinter's face. Dorian knew he was reacting harshly but the bruising on his arm burned like a brand, made him cower from the former templar as if he expected to be struck.

 

“I really am sorry, Dorian. I...I know nothing I say will—”

 

“ _Kaffas,_ I'm tired of your apologies,” Dorian said,shaking his head. His hands still trembled from having been struck, though he slowly felt the ebb and flow of his magic return and it brought a minor comfort to the sobs threatening to rip from his throat. “If you're so damn sorry, perhaps you should stop poisoning yourself to an early grave!”

 

He roughly pressed his thumb and index finger to his eyes, trying to hold back the tears but feeling a few slipping. His outburst left his throat raw, made the weight in his chest become heavier as he heard his fears voiced aloud in the Commander's office. Somehow, hearing it made it that much more real, like giving voice to a painful thought made it a promise.

 

With a deep breath, he slowly staved off the panic that threatened to ripple into hysteria, to keel over and surrender to the emotion that raged beneath. When he lowered his hand with a shaky breath, he saw the Commander standing over him, eyes heavy with misery. In the space between them was an offering, gentle, hesitant. With apprehension, Dorian accepted the proffered hand, allowed the Commander to pull him into an embrace that nearly shattered what little resolve he had left. That something as simple as lyrium could be the final wedge that drove them apart, a substance Dorian certainly was no stranger to, made him curse the sick humor of the Maker, shudder as he held to Cullen tightly, half afraid that when he pulled away, he would be letting go of more than the comfort offered by his _amatus._

 

“I want you to stop,” Dorian admitted, his plea worn, a murmur pressed against stubble-specked skin.

 

Cullen tensed but Dorian still clung tightly to him, head cradled beneath the Commander's chin, the erratic beating of his lover's heart thumping beneath the thin layer of clothes, where his hand was pressed against the Commander's chest. For many long moments, they remained in their embrace, their anger a distant echo as they held each other.

 

When Cullen finally let him go, Dorian watched sadly as the Commander bent to retrieve the vial that lay on the floor. The Commander was silent, staring down at what he held in his grasp, brows furrowed, what light remained from low, glowing candles making the lines on his forehead stand out. His addiction had aged him in a way that was painful to witness, its mark the stronger frown lines made starker each time he had lost his patience.

 

“...I can't stop,” Cullen admitted, his voice sounding as ragged and small as Dorian felt. “I've tried.”

 

The mage could see how those fingers held the vial, delicately, like a coveted sweet pilfered by a young street urchin. The incandescent substance captivated the Fereldan, drawing him in with its perverted seduction, making Dorian feel all the more helpless for having returned the lyrium in the first place. But if Cullen was going to stop using, it had to be _his_ decision.

 

“Yes, you can, _amatus_ ,” Dorian said. He hesitated for a moment but then slowly reached out, gently squeezing his hand over Cullen's. It seemed to temporarily break the strange hold the lyrium had on the ex-templar, made his golden eyes dart up to look into the mage's. “I know you can.”

 

“And if I can't?”

 

Dorian knew that the more stubborn, reckless side of himself wanted to throw ultimatums, to make Cullen choose between his lyrium and the mage. It would be so easy to use himself as a bargaining chip, manipulate the Fereldan into making the choice the Tevinter wanted. Dorian could always tell himself that it was for the best outcome because he'd rather not see Cullen sink further into the madness lyrium wrought on the mind. But he knew he couldn't live with himself if he forced such a choice on Cullen.

 

“Then I'll still be here for you,” Dorian said.

 

It went against everything his head was telling him to do. It would make that choice easier for the Commander, who could have both his addiction and his lover with little consequence beyond his own sanity. The mage knew that and yet, as he dropped his hand to his side, watched with trepidation at the conflict the choice presented to his lover, he also knew there was no other way without damaging what little trust remained between them.

 

Cullen look down to the vial, then looked back up into gray, sorrowful eyes. He looked ready to say something but thought against it, lips sealed shut in a small frown.

 

Each second of indecision felt more torturous than the next.

 

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, Dorian was unable to tear his gaze from the blue substance held between trembling fingers. The longer it took, the more certain he was of his failure to convince Cullen to stop.

 

“Forgive me,” Cullen whispered, staring sadly into Dorian's eyes.

 

The empty vial clattered to the floor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those chapters I struggled with, not in terms of writing but in terms of what my writing may condone. I had always set out to write a toxic relationship but I have been concerned that Cullen's use of smite is treading past the shades of gray and entering into the territory of domestic violence. Domestic violence remains an issue that often lacks proper support or protection for victims and, in many countries (some that I have lived in) is often brushed under the rug and ignored because of prevailing cultural attitudes. I have gone back and forth on how I think Dorian would respond and his reaction is not indicative of what I think a victim should do but what I think they would do in such a situation.


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